The Bride's Baby

CHAPTER TEN

SYLVIE finally began to understand what was driving Tom’s inability to make an emotional commitment. How hard it must be for him to trust not just himself, but anyone.

To understand his anger, his pain at Candy’s desertion. He might not have loved her, but she’d still underscored all that early imprinting. That early lesson that no one was to be relied on…

And yet he’d trusted her enough, cared enough to stop her from hurting someone who she knew, deep down, loved her. That was a huge step forward.

She’d done her best to reassure him that he was not his father, or his mother. If she’d hoped that he’d instantly come over all paternal, well, that was unrealistic. He’d had a lifetime to live with the horrors of his early life, for the certainty that he did not want children to become ingrained into his psyche. He couldn’t be expected to switch all that off in a moment.

But the longest journey started with a single step. Tonight they’d made that together.

Tom was using his cellphone when she returned to the bedroom, talking to someone about making the sideshow booths. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement and carried on, while she opened her bag, took out the small folder of notepaper she kept in there and settled at the small escritoire to write her letter. The second most difficult in her life.

It was a deliberate ploy. She wanted him to see her pen gliding across the same heavy cream paper on which she’d written to him. She uncapped her pen and smoothed a hand over her hair, lingering at the damp patch where his tears had soaked in.

And then, pushing all that from her mind, she began.

‘That didn’t take long,’ Tom said, watching as she carefully folded the sheet into four and tucked it into an envelope. Addressed it.

‘No. Sometimes things you think are impossible are nowhere near as difficult as you imagine,’ she said and looked up as he joined her. ‘I just invited Dad and his partner to join the festivities on Sunday. It was as simple as that.’

‘Will it get there in time?’

‘I’ll take it to the post office first thing in the morning and send it express.’

‘You’ll have enough to do,’ he said, holding out his hand for it. ‘Leave it to me.’

‘Thank you,’ she said and placed the envelope in his hands. Would he remember the feel of it? How he’d felt when he’d opened it?

‘I’ve organised a carpenter to build the stalls for the marquee,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here first thing.’

‘Fast work.’ She glanced at her watch. It was barely nine. Still early enough to call some of those people who’d assured her that she could call any time, ask anything.

‘What about the Steam Museum? I imagine you’ll want to sort that out personally?’

‘The sooner the better. I’ll make that call first.’

As she picked up her cellphone Tom headed for the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. You can leave this with me.’

He didn’t wait for her to reply but, lifting the letter to indicate what he was referring to, he left her alone.

It was somewhat abrupt but it had been an emotion-charged evening. Maybe he just needed some air.

And she let it go, calling Laura, who knew everyone, and handing her the job of securing the Steam Museum for the photo shoot.

It didn’t open until two on Sunday so they had plenty of time. The church was booked for early afternoon. They could finish off in the marquee in the early evening.

Tom closed the door to Sylvie’s bedroom, leaned back against it for a moment while he caught his breath. While she called Jeremy to enthuse him with her excitement. Got him to call the trustees and ask them for the loan of some of his grandfather’s toys for their big day.

He looked down at the letter he was holding. At least he’d managed to save one man from heartache.

His own would have to wait. He’d made her a promise and he’d keep it. But he’d leave as soon as he was sure everything was just as she wanted it. He didn’t intend to be an onlooker when Jeremy Hillyer arrived to claim his bride.

‘It’s beautiful, Geena.’

The dress, a simple A-line shift in rich cream silk, had been appliquéd to the knees in swirling blocks of lavender, purple and green. And, instead of a veil, she’d created a stunningly beautiful loose thigh-length jacket on which the appliqué was repeated around the edge and on wide fold-back cuffs. Embroidery trailed over the silk and tiny beads caught the light as she moved-beads that matched the small Russian-style tiara Geena had commissioned to go with the gown.

‘I just wish it was for real. I really hoped you were going to bring Mr Hot-and-Sexy along to try on the matching waistcoat,’ she said.

‘Me too,’ Sylvie replied, for once letting her mask slip, her feelings show. Then, ‘I meant, I wish it was for real.’

‘I know what you meant, Sylvie. It was written all over your face. He is your baby’s father, isn’t he?’

Sylvie tried to deny it. Couldn’t. Lifted her hands in a helpless gesture that said it all.

‘I thought so. Men are such fools.’

‘We’re all fools,’ she said, shrugging off the beautiful jacket.

The week had been such a roller coaster of emotions that she was almost reeling from it. Or maybe she was just exhausted.

Tom had been such a tower of strength. Organising carpenters to make the food stalls. Rounding up every set of coloured lights in the county and making sure they were fixed for maximum impact so that inside the marquee was like being inside a funfair. Finding old fairground ride cars and adapting them for seating.

And, in the evenings, he was always there, ready to talk through any problems she’d encountered and offer suggestions.

He had such a clear vision, a way of seeing to the core of things.

He only had one blind spot. There was only one subject he never mentioned. It was almost as if he was so locked into his past, his determination never to be a father, that he’d blanked it out.

It couldn’t go on.

She wouldn’t allow it to go on.

‘Is that the dress?’

Tom was working at the kitchen table as she walked in carrying the box containing the tissue-wrapped dress and he pushed back the chair, standing up to take it from her.

‘Yes. I insisted on bringing it with me, just in case.’

‘In case of what?’

‘In case she has a flat tyre. Or her workroom burns to the ground.’ The principle that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. ‘Believe me, when you’ve been in this business for as long as I have-’

‘Actually, Sylvie, I’m a bit concerned about the traction engines. I know you said Laura had it all in hand, but shouldn’t they-’

‘You don’t have to worry about them. We’ve got all morning,’ she said. ‘Plenty of time.’ Then, ‘I’ll just take this upstairs, then I want to talk to you, Tom.’

‘Can you leave it for a moment?’ he asked, taking the box from her, putting it on the table. ‘I want you to come and see the marquee.’

‘I thought it was finished.’

‘It is now,’ he said with the kind of smile that had become such a familiar sight over the last few days as they’d worked together. And he held out his hand. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’

She laid her hand over his and he wrapped his fingers over hers. For a moment neither of them moved, then, as if jerking himself back from a dream, he headed for the door. Once they were outside, he paused for her to fall in beside him and they walked together, hand in hand, through the dusk to where the huge marquee had been erected by the hire company to display their wares, decorated at Celebrity’s expense for her fantasy wedding.

‘Wait,’ he said as they approached the entrance. ‘I want you to get the full effect.’ He kept tight hold of her hand as he switched on the generator. The outside was lit up with white lights along every edge-along the roof ridge, cascading from the finials, circling above the drop cloths.

Inside, the lights-smaller, more decorative, a mirror image of those on the outside-were reflecting on the polished floor. The supports were topped with huge knots of brightly coloured ribbons, the same ribbons that were plaited around them to the floor. In the corners were brightly painted stalls, offering a choice of foods. The fairground seating.

Small finishing touches had been added during the afternoon. The candyfloss machine had arrived. Bunches of balloons were straining against their strings.

And then, as she looked around, she saw it.

A fairground organ. The kind that played from printed sheets. He crossed to it, threw a switch and, as if by magic, it began to play, music filling the huge space.

‘Tom! It’s wonderful! The perfect finishing touch.’

Even as Sylvie said the words, she felt her skin rise in goose-bumps. Nothing was ever perfect…

But then Tom said, ‘Would you care to dance, Miss Smith?’ And, before she could protest, he was waltzing her across the floor. And it was. Magic.

About as perfect as it was possible for something to be.

And much too brief. The music stopped. Tom held her for just a moment longer. Then he stepped away.

‘Enough.’

The word had a finality about it but, before she could say anything, he turned away. ‘Go in, Sylvie. It’ll take me a while to shut everything down. Make sure it’s all safe. I’ll leave the lights until last so that you can see your way.’ Then, ‘Take care.’

‘Yes, I will.’

For a moment neither of them moved and then, because the longer she hesitated, the longer it would be before he could join her and she could talk to him about the future, she turned and walked back to the house.

Inside, the hall was now festooned with pink ribbons in preparation for tomorrow’s Fayre. The door to the ballroom stood wide open to reveal the catwalk, the tables with gilt chairs laid out in preparation for the fashion show. Mother of the bride outfits, going-away outfits, honeymoon clothes. Formal hire wear for men, including kilts. Bridesmaids and page-boy outfits. And, finally, Geena’s bridal wear.

The florist had been busy all day putting the finishing touches to her arrangements. Pew-end nosegays that had been hung all along the edge of the catwalk. Table flowers.

In the drawing room all the stalls were laid out like an Aladdin’s cave. Everything sparkling, fresh, lovely.

Laura was right. This was worth it, she thought. Even the weather forecast was good. It was going to be warm and sunny as it had been all week.

So why was she so cold?

She pushed open the library door, eager to get to the fire she knew would be banked up behind the guard.

But the guard was down. The room was not empty. There was someone sitting in Tom’s chair. A man, who stood up as she came to an abrupt halt.

Her father.

Older, with a little less hair, a little thicker around the waist-line. Deeply tanned. Still unbelievably good-looking.

Waiting. Uncertain.

She took a step towards him. He took one towards her and then she reached out, took his hand and carried it to her waist. ‘You’re going to be a grandfather,’ she said.

‘I read about it in Celebrity. When I saw the photograph I thought for one awful moment you were back with that piece of…’ he stopped ‘…Jeremy Hillyer. I thought you were back with him.’

‘It’s not Jeremy’s baby.’ She covered his hand with her own. ‘It’s Tom’s baby.’ Then, ‘He knew you were here, didn’t he? That’s why he sent me on ahead of him.’

‘He said he thought we might need some time on our own.’ Then, ‘I’d given up hope. When I read about the baby and you still didn’t get in touch, I knew it would never happen.’

‘I’m sorry. So sorry…’

‘Hush. You’re my little girl, Sylvie. You don’t ever have to say you’re sorry.’ And he put out his arms and gathered her in.

Later-after they’d both cried as they’d talked about her mother, as they’d discovered they could laugh too-she said, ‘Did you bring Michael with you?’

‘We’re staying in Melchester. He’ll come tomorrow. Thank you for asking him.’

‘You love him. He’s part of our lives.’

‘And Tom? Is he going to be part of yours?’

‘I…I don’t know. Just when I think that maybe it’s going to be all right, I realise it isn’t.’ And she shivered again.

‘Maybe you should go and find him, Sylvie. We can talk some more tomorrow.’

‘Tom?’

She’d watched her father’s tail-lights disappear over the brow of the hill and then walked through the house looking for Tom. Not just to thank him, but determined now, as never before, to make him see reason about the baby.

Mrs Kennedy was in the kitchen making a sandwich. ‘Tom asked me to make sure you had something to eat.’

‘I had some soup.’

‘Hours ago. Did you have a visitor?’

‘My father. He’s coming for the Fayre tomorrow. He hopes to see you.’

‘I should think so.’ And she smiled. ‘I’m glad you’ve made up.’

‘Yes. Me too.’ Then, ‘Where is Tom?’

‘As to that, I couldn’t say,’ she said, wiping her hands and reaching up behind a plate on the dresser to take down an envelope. ‘But he called in to the cottage on his way out and asked me to come over in an hour or two and make sure you had something to eat. He said to tell you he left something upstairs for you. In your room.’

‘On his way out? When?’

‘A while back. Just after he turned out the lights in the marquee.’

She checked her watch. Nearer two hours. She’d thought Tom was just staying out of the way, giving them time to talk.

But she remembered the way she’d shivered. The finality in the way he’d said, ‘Enough’. That he’d left something upstairs for her. Something he hadn’t wanted her to find before he’d left…

She bolted up the stairs, flung open her bedroom door and saw the clown teddy propped up on her bed, just where Tom had been lying a few days ago. Looking for all the world as if he belonged there.

Because he had.

She picked up the bear, knowing that Tom had taken it from the trunk, carried it down to her room, placed it there. She buried her face in it, hoping to catch something of his scent. Trying to feel him, understand what had been going through his mind as he’d been putting things right for her. For her family.

Just as, all week, he’d been making things work for her fantasy wedding. Coming up with neat little ideas to part the visitors to the Wedding Fayre from their money. All little extras for the Pink Ribbon Club.

Then, as she looked up, she saw the letter that had been lying beneath the bear and she ripped open the flap, took out the single folded sheet of paper, then sat down before she opened it, knowing it wouldn’t be good.

My dearest Sylvie

Tomorrow will be your very special day and, now you have your father to support you, I know I can leave you in his safe hands.

I’m going away for a while-but not running this time. I need to find something new to do with my life. Something bigger. Something real. My first decision is not to convert the house into a conference centre. It’s a real home and I hope it will remain as such. Whatever happens, you needn’t worry about Mr and Mrs Kennedy. I’ve made arrangements to ensure they’ll never have to leave their home.

I’ve also asked Mrs Kennedy to see that all the clothes in the attic are donated to Melchester Museum. Everything else of value in the trunks is to be given to the Pink Ribbon Club for fund-raising purposes. The bear, however, is yours. Something belonging to your family that you can pass on to your own baby.

Finally, I want to reassure you that you can rely on my discretion. What happened between us will always remain a very special, a very private memory.

I hope the sun shines for you tomorrow and wish you and Jeremy a long and happy life together.

Yours

Tom

Sylvie read the note. Maybe she was tired; she was certainly emotionally drained, but none of it made sense.

She’d seen him just a couple of hours ago. And what the heck did he mean about her having a long and happy life with Jeremy?

She read the letter again, then went back down to the kitchen.

‘What does Tom mean about you never having to leave your home, Mrs Kennedy?’

She smiled. ‘Bless the man, he gave it to us. Said that’s what Lady Annika would have done if she’d been able to and anyway it wouldn’t be missed from the estate when it was sold.’

Sylvie sat down.

He’d given it to them. Just because she’d said…‘And the clothes? You’re to send them to the Museum?’

‘I believe he spoke to someone there just yesterday. He said to tell you that if there’s anything you want, you should take it.’

She shook her head. ‘No…’

He’d been planning this? Why hadn’t he said anything?

She re-read the last paragraph again:

“…I hope the sun shines for you tomorrow, and wish you and Jeremy a long and happy life together.”

Jeremy?

He was always bringing up Jeremy. Had even mentioned seeing them in Celebrity together. Had the entire world seen that? Even her father had said…

Oh, good grief. No. He couldn’t possibly think that all this wedding stuff was real. Could he?

Did he really believe that she was marrying Jeremy while she was carrying his baby? While she had been practically swooning in his arms in the attics? Was that why he’d pulled back from that kiss over the kitchen table?

“…you can rely on my discretion…”

Was that what he thought she’d wanted to talk to him about? To plead for his discretion?

‘Oh, no, Tom McFarlane, you don’t…’

She had his cellphone number programmed into her phone and she hit fast dial but his phone was turned off and all she got was some anonymous voice inviting her to leave a message.

‘Tom? Don’t you dare do another disappearing act on me-not until you’ve spoken to me! Ring me, do you hear? Ring me now!’

But what if he didn’t?

What if he decided to head straight for the airport, put as much distance between them as possible? It was what he’d done when Candy had let him down.

She froze. Was it possible that he’d only just come back? That he’d never received her letter?

No. That wasn’t possible. Despite her promise to him-to herself-she’d cracked, had asked him if he’d got it. She’d never forget his dismissive nod. And a long time later, “I’m sorry…”

None of this made sense. She had to talk to him. She dialled Enquiries for the number of his London apartment, but inevitably, it was unlisted. And there was no point in calling his office on a Saturday night. But she did that too. If he was there he didn’t pick up.

There was nothing for it but to drive to London and confront him, face to face. Scooping up one of the sandwiches Mrs Kennedy had made and grabbing up her keys from the kitchen table, she ran for her car.

Tom let himself into his apartment. It was immaculate. Everything was pristine. Characterless. Empty.

As different from Longbourne Court as it was possible for it to be. In a week that rambling house had become his home. A place where he felt totally at ease.

But it would be forever linked to Sylvie. Everything he touched, every room, would bring back some memory of a smile, a gesture.

He’d never be able to walk into the morning room without remembering what he’d said to her.

Would never see violets blooming in the wood without the scent bringing back that moment when he’d come so close to reaching out to her. Betraying himself.

He tossed the keys on the table. Rubbed his hands over his face in an attempt to bring some life, some warmth back to his skin.

Picked up one of the piles of mail that his cleaner had put to one side. She’d clearly tossed everything that was obviously junk mail and had sorted the rest into two piles. The stuff she knew was important she’d put in one, anything she was doubtful about in the other.

There wasn’t that much, considering how long it was since he’d been home, but all his business and financial stuff went to the office and most of his personal stuff too.

He began to shuffle through the envelopes, lost interest and tossed them back on the table, where they slithered on the polished surface and fell on the floor.

About to walk past, leave them, he saw a familiar square cream envelope, took a step back and then bent to pick it up.

It might have been coincidence that it was exactly the same as the envelope that he’d taken to the post office for Sylvie. It might have been if the handwriting hadn’t been the same.

When had she written to him?

There was no stamp. No postmark. No way of knowing how long it had lain here waiting for him to return. She must have delivered it by hand. She must have come here, pushed it through his letter box, waited for an answer that had never come.

She’d asked him if he’d got her letter and he’d thought she’d meant the one returning the money but he knew that it was this letter she’d been talking about and, with a sudden sense of dread, he pushed his thumb beneath the flap and, hand trembling, took out the single sheet of paper and opened it.

Dear Mr McFarlane

I’m writing to let you know that as a result of our recent encounter, I’m expecting a baby in July…

‘No!’

The word was a roar. A bellow of pain.

He didn’t wait to read the rest but grabbed the phone, put a call through to the house. It rang and rang and then the answering machine picked up. ‘There’s to be no damn wedding tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Do you hear me, Sylvie? No wedding!’

Then he tried her cellphone, but only got a voicemail prompt. He repeated his message, then added, ‘I’m coming right back…’

Then, in desperation, he called the Kennedys’ cottage.

Her car refused to start. Her beloved, precious little car that had never once let her down, chose this moment to play dead. The lights. She’d driven through a patch of mist and had turned the lights on. And had forgotten to turn them off.

It took her ten minutes at a trot to reach the Kennedys’ cottage.

‘Don’t you fret, Sylvie,’ Mrs Kennedy said. ‘You just sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea. Mr Kennedy’s at a darts match, but the minute he comes home he’ll get his jump-leads and fix your car for you.’

‘I can’t wait. I’ll have to call a taxi.’

‘I’ll do that while you get your breath back.’

There was a half an hour wait and, while Mrs Kennedy went off to make ‘a nice cup of tea’, she decided to try and call Tom again, but her phone, which had been working overtime all day, chose that moment to join her car and give up the ghost.

‘Stupid, useless thing,’ she said, flinging it back into her bag, too angry to cry.

It was nearer an hour before she heard the taxi finally draw up outside the cottage and she didn’t wait for the driver to knock but just grabbed her bag, kissed Mrs Kennedy and ran down the path to the gate.

And came to a full stop.

Leaning against the fearsome Aston, arms folded, was Tom McFarlane. And he didn’t look happy.

She opened her mouth. Saw what he was holding and closed it again.

Apparently satisfied, he straightened, opened the car door and said, ‘Get in.’

He didn’t sound happy either and while, as recently as sixty seconds ago, she’d been fuming with impatience to see him, talk to him, that suddenly felt like the most dangerous idea in the entire world.

‘You’ve got everything wrong, Tom,’ she said, her feet apparently glued to the path.

‘Nowhere near as wrong as you, Sylvie.’

‘I don’t actually think that’s possible,’ she said, finally snapping.

He was angry? Well, she wasn’t exactly dancing with delight either and, freed by righteous indignation, she swept down the path and, ignoring the open car door, she walked away from him and his car. She’d rather walk…

‘Sylvie!’ It was a demand rather than a plea. Then, with a sudden catch in his throat, ‘Sylvie, don’t do it…’ She faltered. ‘I’m begging you. Please…’

She stopped and, when he spoke again, he was right behind her.

‘Please don’t marry Jeremy Hillyer.’

It was true, then. He’d really thought she was going to marry Jeremy.

‘But you’ve been helping me all week,’ she said. ‘Coming up with great ideas for the wedding. This afternoon you wrote me a note wishing us all the best. What’s different now?’

‘Everything. I thought the baby was his. I was coming home two months ago. Coming to see you. I didn’t know if you’d even talk to me but I had to try. I was in the airport, the boarding card in my pocket when I saw you smiling out of the cover of Celebrity. Read about your “happy event”, that you were back with your childhood sweetheart.’

‘But I wrote to you, Tom. I told you about the baby. I asked you if you’d got it.’

‘I thought you meant the one about the money. My secretary emailed me to tell me that you’d returned it, asking me what to do with it, and I realised what you must have thought. It wasn’t like that, Sylvie. I’d always intended to pay you in full. The cheque I wrote, put in my pocket, was for your whole fee.’

‘Oh.’

‘I told her to give it to charity, if that’s any consolation.’ Then, ‘I didn’t get this letter until this evening, Sylvie. I didn’t know about our little girl…’

She blinked. ‘That’s impossible. I put it through your door myself. Two weeks after…’ She gestured helplessly at the gentle swell of her belly.

‘Which would have been perfect if I’d been there. I’ve been out of the country for six months, Sylvie. I only stopped to pick up my passport and then I caught the first plane with a free seat, just to put some space between us.’

‘Um…I thought you were going to Mustique…’

‘How could I go there after you and I…?’ And he was the one lost for words. ‘I hurt you, Sylvie. Made you cry. I’ve only made two women cry in my entire life.’

‘Your mother…’

“I’ll be all right. I have to go…”

His mother had said that. And so had she…

‘I was crying because you’d given me something so unbelievable, Tom. I’d been frozen, held in an emotional Ice Age. Too much had happened at once. I’d lost everything and then been betrayed…’ She looked up at him, wanting him to know that this was the truth. ‘I spent my life making perfect weddings for other people when I was unable to even share a kiss…’

‘Sylvie…’

‘I came straight back, as soon as I could, but you’d gone.’

‘I was in bits. I thought you couldn’t wait to leave…Never wanted to set eyes on me again and who could blame you?’

She reached up, placed her fingers over his lips. ‘You are my sun, Tom. You looked at me and it was instant meltdown. You held me and your heat warmed me.’

‘But…’

‘The tears were pure joy, Tom. And the baby…’ She took his hand and placed it over the baby growing beneath her heart. ‘Our baby is pure joy too.’

‘She’s mine…’ His face, pale in the rising moon, glowed with something like reverence. ‘My little girl.’

She’d cried then and she was crying now. Silent tears that were falling down her cheeks as she said, ‘You have a family, Tom.’

For a moment they just stood there and then he said, ‘It’s not enough. I want you, Sylvie. I tried to get you out of my mind, tried to forget you, but it was no good. I…’ He stopped.

‘You what, Tom?’ She reached up, her palms on his cheeks, making him look at her when he would have turned away. ‘Say the words.’

‘I…I love you.’ Then, ‘I love you, but I’ve made a complete mess of it. It’s too late…’

‘Because of the wedding tomorrow? Is that the only thing standing between us?’

‘Sylvie…’ And this time her name was a tortured cry that rent her to the heart.

‘It’s a fantasy wedding, Tom. Not real. Just the “Sylvie Duchamp Smith” fantasy of what her wedding would be. If…when…she ever found a man she could spend the rest of her life with.’

She saw him wrestle with that.

‘But Jeremy…’

‘Is not that man. We met at a charity do. We were polite, we smiled at each other. Celebrity did the rest. I suspect they were hoping to provoke me into naming the real father of my child.’

‘But you’ve been ordering cakes. Food. Flowers. You’ve got an updated version of the dress you were going to wear the first time…’

‘The dress is nothing like the one that my great-grandma wore,’ she assured him. ‘I have an entirely different fantasy these days.’ Then, ‘I can’t believe you’d think I’d sell my own wedding to the media.’

‘I had the impression that you’d do anything for your mother’s charity.’

‘Some things are not for sale, Tom.’

Then, catching a flicker of light, the twitch of a curtain from the Kennedys’ cottage, she said, ‘They knew, didn’t they? They knew you were coming back.’

‘If you’d turned on your cellphone any time in the last two hours, so would you.’

‘My battery is flat. What did you say?’

‘“There will be no wedding…”’

‘None?’

‘Not tomorrow,’ he said, reaching out and touching her cheek. ‘But soon, I hope. Very soon. Because if you think you can have my baby without any expectation of commitment to her father, you’ve got another think coming.’

‘Is that right?’

‘And it’s my fantasy too, remember? I want the whole works.’

‘All of it?’

‘All of it. Everything, everyone. Except Celebrity. They can have their fantasy tomorrow, but the reality will be for us alone. Not just for a day, but for always.’ Then, as if realising that something was missing, he went down on one knee and, under a bright canopy of stars, he said, ‘If I promise to wear a purple waistcoat to match your shoes, will you marry me, Sylvie Smith?’

Four weeks after the Pink Ribbon Club Wedding Fayre featuring Sylvie Duchamp Smith’s fantasy wedding was a sell-out for Celebrity, Tom and Sylvie did it for real.

Sylvie arrived at the church on a traction engine that was all gleaming paintwork and brass. Geena had made her another dress-since, obviously, the groom had seen the first one. It wasn’t quite the same since she never repeated her designer gowns, but it was close. And Sylvie wore the purple shoes.

Josie had added a dusting of green glitter to her purple hair and, having been bribed with an appliquéd dress with a tiny little matching jacket and a pair of pale green silk-embroidered shoes, had surrendered her boots.

The god-daughters were adorable in lavender and violet. The page scowled, but that was only to be expected. Even a five-year-old knew that purple velvet breeches were an outrage. And, as she walked up the aisle on the arm of her father, the sunlight caught the diamonds in the tiara Tom had commissioned from a local jeweller for his bride.

The fair was a riot, the food was pronounced perfect, the children were sick on candyfloss-well, nothing was ever quite perfect-and Josie, now the partner in charge of weddings and parties, was overwhelmed with people demanding exactly the same for their own special day.

But, as Tom had told Sylvie, this was a one-off. For them alone.